Chronicles of the Faithful Inconviences
by Hammer-space Handgun
Summary: Honor is such a burden. A one-shot.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim or its characters. They belong to Bethesda game studios. The only thing I own is this written work and a couple of sweetrolls (legally acquired, of course). Please support the official releases; I would highly recommend this game to anyone who can run it on their system of choice.

**Duty**

Duty is honor. As such, it is honorable to do one's duty.

A soldier of the Imperial Legion is sworn into the service of the Empire. They will fight and strike down any and all who threaten the continued existence of the Empire. For their Emperor, they will stand resolute in the face of certain death, knowing that their demise may be the salvation of those they protect. They travel far and wide, facing many dangers from both man and nature alike, striving to ensure the continued peace of the Empire by means of force. When the Thalmor struck, the Legion fought back. When the White Gold Concordat was signed, the Legion, even now, bides their time, waiting for the moment that the Empire will inevitably triumph over the Thalmor.

In the end, if the Empire is to kill, then the Legion will kill for it. If the Empire is to die, then the Legion will die with it.

It is their duty as the Imperial Legion.

A soldier of the Stormcloak Rebellion is sworn to the service Ulfric Stormcloak. They will fight tooth and nail to drive out the crumbling Empire and reclaim the land in the honor of their brother, their sisters, and their true High King, Ulfric Stormcloak. The will live, fight, and die all across Skyrim and the will of Talos, the Ninth Divine, will guide their steel into those who would hope to deny his right to ascension. Even as they lose ground against the traitorous Legion they do not waver, for they know that their perseverance and tenacity will result in their inevitable victory.

First, they will drive out the Empire and reclaim Skyrim. Then, they will destroy those slaving elves, the Thalmor, for daring to think they could oppress the Nordic people and tread on Talos' name.

Battle and blood-that is their duty as a Stormcloak, the true sons and daughters of Skyrim.

A Jarl's duty is to maintain their hold martially and economically, often seeking the guidance of their Stewards, Court Wizards, or Guard Captains to do so; likewise, it is the duty of those Stewards, Court Wizards, and Guard Captains to provide sound advice or appropriate action. A guardsman's duty is to defend their hold as per the Jarl's orders. It is the duty of the people to provide for their families by means of food and shelter and to support their hold by means of taxes or service. It is a Thane's duty to serve as a role model to the people (or at least, so she liked to believe; the occasional pilfered sweetroll or bottle of mead would speak otherwise).

It is the duty of a housecarl, to serve their charge and protect them and all they own with her life. Thus, as a housecarl, that is her duty to perform to the best of her ability.

Right?

Of course it is. She scoffs silently at the idea that it isn't. It is her sworn duty to serve her Thane to the best of her ability. That is her duty until the day she dies. She is honor-bound. But even so...

Inside the rustic home, she can hear her Thane being pulled into a conversation involving the civil war; the blacksmith obviously supports the Stormcloak rebellion. She thinks back to an offhanded statement she once made at the sight of a Stormcloak patrol during their travels. She cannot remember what it was that she said-only that it involved something favoring Stormcloaks or criticizing Imperials. It could have been an attempt at a joke for all she knew. All she could remember was the look of disappointment on her Thane's face. Disappointment directed towards _her_.

She was mortified. Did she somehow inadvertently offend her Thane? She had shook away her shame and resolved to never speak of the war again. However, all that did was increase her curiosity on the matter. Just who did her Thane support?

Having been left outside, she knew it would be improper for her to eavesdrop on their conversation, so she tuned them out and attempted to distract herself. Heavy steel clinking as she walked about the porch, she paced a couple of times before stopping once again by the doorway.

There were etchings on the doorway, she noticed. They were height markers. Over the course of fourteen years, a young, five-year-old Gunjar had grown from a mere eight hands high to a whopping eighteen-and-a-half hands tall. The little one, Greta, is still twelve years old and as many hands high. She plays with their dog, Patchy, around the house, occasionally passing glances at the armored woman seemingly standing vigil over her house. The girl dreams of the day that her big, strong brother comes home with a doll for her, a dress for her mother and a new axe for her father.

Gunjar is a rebel. The housecarl is as sure as a Nord is proud.

What if her Thane is a supporter of the Empire? Even worse, what if her Thane chooses to fight for the Empire or the Stormcloaks see her Thane as a threat? Could she fight her Nordic brothers and sisters for her Thane? Could she do her duty and kill those she could have once smiled and laughed with over a mug of mead after a hard day's work?

Could she kill Gunjar and crush this little girl's dreams-all for the sake of duty?

She could, she affirms. Of course she could. She is honor-bound, after all. If it is her Thane's will, then it shall be done. She knew, without even a shadow of a doubt, that she could do her duty and uphold her honor.

What she did not know was if she could sleep afterwards.

There are Nords amongst the Imperial Legion, she remembers. Are they ever faced with this fear? Have their fears ever become reality? She shudders at the distinct possibility. Such a thing is a terrifying idea, to see one that she has played with as child, drank with as she grew and possibly even loved as a body at the end of her sword. Even more terrifying, to see them from the end of theirs, lifeblood running down your belly, your wound's weeping matched only by your friend's, brother's, or lover's eyes. All for what? Duty? Honor?

Of course, she decides without hesitation. Duty and honor is what defines a person's quality. If one has killed their brother for honor honorably, then it was an honorable death for an honorable cause. She knows that one day they would meet again in Sovngarde. Until then, she would cry herself to a meager imitation of sleep, she knew. Every night she would weep in loss and desperately pray that when they do meet again after her undoubtedly honorable death, she would be forgiven. Either way, she would have fulfilled her duty. She would remain honor-bound.

She sighs. Duty and honor were truly terrible qualities for a person to have. Like gilded chains, they are met with admiration, but they drag the wearer along to its own path. Like these chains, too many conflicting duties would leave one drawn and quartered.

She would take on no other duties, she resolved. She fulfilled her duty as a citizen. She fulfilled her duty as a hold guard. Now, she will fulfill her duty as a housecarl. She will do her family and her name proud. When people tell stories in of their journey over flagons of mead for years to come, it won't just be about her Thane. No, it will be known as _The Epic of the Dragonborn and—_

"Lydia."

"Huh?" she starts, broken out of her thoughts, and turns towards the disturbance. The signature high cheekbones and blind eye of her Thane's displeased face are what greets her. Her Thane's toned arms are crossed and a foot taps impatiently on the wooden floor. Behind her Thane, the blacksmith fumes by the fireplace silently, being comforted softly by his tearful wife. Still shocked by the sudden break from her silent ponderings, she can only tilt her head in confusion. Her Thane simply looks down to where she, the pillar of unwavering and immovable loyalty and dedication, has positioned herself in the midst of her introspection.

Perfectly in the middle of the doorway.

Her Thane's eye meets hers with a sharp glint of unspoken annoyance.

"...Oh."


End file.
